


Mending

by timehopper



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Blood and Injury, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Needles, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 11:37:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20290834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: Angela Ziegler and Jesse McCree have never gotten along. He's rude, sassy, and doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut. After a mission gone awry, however, that 'famous McCree attitude' turns out to be just what the doctor ordered.





	Mending

**Author's Note:**

> The winner of my monthly poll: _"McCree and Mercy historically dislike each other (when they were young) but one of them has a terrible experience and the other one comforts them."_
> 
> Can be read as romantic or platonic - up to you! I really really love platonic/borderline romantic fic, and McMercy is great, so I was so excited to write this! It's completely up my alley. I hope everyone enjoys reading this half as much as I did writing it!

When Angela enters the room, McCree is already there waiting for her, sitting on the medical table. She looks up from her chart and frowns, far from happy to see him. She has enough on her mind as it is; she doesn’t need him fouling her mood even further. 

He must see the disdain on her face, because he rolls his eyes. “I’m not exactly happy to be here either, y’know,” he says. “But I got a wound that needs stitchin’ and I got sent to you specifically.” 

Angela hums her acknowledgement and decides, wisely, not to wonder aloud why he couldn’t have been sent to someone else. “I see. Show me the wound, then.” 

She gestures for him to sit in the chair at the back of the room, and when he does, she pulls a medical table over to him and sits on her own chair. McCree extends his arm and reveals the long, deep gash on it. Angela’s frown deepens. “Genji?” 

“Genji.” McCree nods. “Stress relief after the last mission, I guess.” 

Angela purses her lips and turns away from McCree’s steady, expectant gaze. She puts on her sterile medical gloves and prepares her suturing equipment and anaesthetic, trying to pretend she doesn’t feel McCree’s eyes like fire on her back. 

She had gone on that last mission. Overwatch had borrowed Genji for it - they claimed it was because they needed someone quick to get into their target location undetected, but they’d also decided to use this mission as a field test for his cybernetics. To make sure nothing went wrong, they needed Angela to accompany him. 

Genji had been fine. He wasn’t happy after finding out he was there just to be tested, but nothing had gone horribly wrong on his end. 

The rest of the team, however, was another story entirely. 

It was the first time Angela had not been able to get her whole team home alive. One of them, a more experienced agent named Nichols, had been killed in action. Angela watched it happen, watched as his leg was blown off by a grenade. Watched him start to bleed out. She’d wanted, desperately, to go back, but another explosion cut Nichols off from her and she - she -

“You still with me, doc?” 

McCree’s voice cracks through the memory and brings Angela back to the moment. “Yes, yes,” she says quickly. “I just - just got lost in thought a moment, is all.” 

“Mm.” McCree nods and sits up in his seat when Angela returns to his side. She holds up a syringe as forewarning for what’s about to come. 

“This will sting a moment, but it will numb the wounded area,” she says. 

“I know what it does,” McCree bites back. Angela’s eyebrows twitch - why does he have to be so ornery already? - but she says nothing in response and injects him with the local anaesthetic.

It takes effect quickly. When she’s sure McCree won’t be able to feel the sting of the sutures, she sets to work. 

She’s glad for the silence while it lasts; but, as usual, McCree demonstrates that he has no idea how or when to keep his mouth shut.

"I heard about what happened," he says. "About the mission. That Nichols didn't come back alive."

Angela pauses for a moment. She narrows her eyes, takes a deep breath and decides not to grace McCree with a response. She simply continues her work.

Of course, McCree takes that as an invitation to continue. 

“These things happen,” he says. With his free hand, he removes his hat and ruffles his hair, then looks down at his feet like he can’t bear to meet Angela’s eyes. Like he’s personally disappointed in her. It kills her, and she cringes away from him pre-emptively, waiting for the barb that she’s sure must be coming.

It doesn’t. Instead, McCree says, "You can't beat yourself up about it." 

It makes Angela feel worse than if he had been angry. Why didn’t he yell at her? Why didn’t he rub it in her face that she isn’t cut out for Overwatch after all, just like she herself believed from the start? 

All the anger inside her, all the hatred she feels for herself, all the guilt, roils inside her and bursts out in a yell. "You don't understand!” she shouts. “I could have saved him!" 

McCree puts his hat back on his head. He meets her angry gaze with one of his own. “Not from what I heard.” 

“Then what you heard is wrong.” Angela pulls the needle through McCree’s skin, a little harder than intended, and clenches her fingers around the forceps. Her shoulders won’t stop shaking. “If I had just gone back--” 

“Then you’d be dead right now too.” McCree’s tone is harsh, final. There’s no room for argument, and Angela realizes it. She lowers her shoulders in a vain attempt to relax them, but the tension does not leave her jaw. She glares at McCree, daring him to continue.

He does, unaffected by (or unaware of) the vitriol she aims at him. "You were in a war zone, doc. People die in war all the time."

Heat rises to her cheeks as anger bubbles up in her throat. Angela’s face twists as she looks up at McCree, staring right into his eyes, fire and fierce determination glinting in her own. She knows yelling will do no good, though, so she swallows down her burning rage and replaces it with cold, unwavering fury. "I don't need _you _to tell me what war is like.” 

To his credit, McCree inches back, sheepish. 

"Didn't mean it like that," he says, turning his head to the side. Angela almost doesn't catch his words; they're mumbled right into the folds of cloth around his neck. 

"Then you should choose your words more carefully."

McCree is silent for a moment. He looks like he wants to say something - the wrinkle in his nose and at his brow are sign enough - but he must eventually realize he's in the wrong, because he lets a breath out through his nose and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "... Yeah. Right. Sorry."

Angela frowns. She feels like a bit of an ass now for bringing him down like this when he was only here for a prescription and a quick stitch, but she's tired of being treated as delicately as she is. She's not a girl anymore - she's seen more than her fair share of bloodshed, and she's one of the leading minds not only in Overwatch's medical branch, but in the global scientific community as a whole. It's what drives her so crazy about this man - they’re same age, but he treats her like a doll. 

And maybe she hates herself, just a little bit, for liking it. 

"I'm sorry, too," she says. She really is, but she can't bring herself to meet McCree's eyes again. Instead, she focuses entirely on his arm, on the needle moving in and out of his skin. It's simple work, almost mindless, and it's easy to understand - much easier than navigating the complex emotions behind her acquaintanceship with McCree.

They sit silently, Angela stitching McCree up and McCree trying to hide how uncomfortable je is. He's doing a terrible job, what with how his leg bounces with every jab of the needle, and he bites his lip hard to muffle his sharp intakes of breath, but it's nice that he's no longer trying to distract her.

Angela pulls the needle through one more time, then pauses. McCree looks down at his arm and raises a brow, uncertain, but before he can ask what the hold up is, Angela speaks. 

"How do you… how do you deal with it?" she asks. Because he _has _dealt with it - he must have, because covert or not, not everyone returns from Blackwatch missions alive. 

"You mean the guilt?" he asks, but they both know Angela doesn't have to answer. He chews the inside of his mouth as he mulls over what to say, then eventually shrugs. "We all have our methods. All different ways of coping. Me, I drink. Genji cuts heads. Reyes… he sews, if you can believe it."

In spite of herself, Angela giggles. "I can. I've seen his Halloween costumes."

McCree laughs too. "Right? Wouldn't've thought someone like him would be into that kinda thing. Someone who's all tough and no-nonsense like that." He shakes his head fondly. "But that's beside the point. Point is, distractions help. You gotta face it eventually, but in the meantime, keep yourself busy. I can't tell you how to do that, though, since that's what's different for everyone."

"Hm." Angela looks up, watches McCree's eyes. He doesn't look at her, not directly. His gaze is far away, locked on something she wouldn't be able to see even if she tried. And that's where the conversation ends, with him giving her something to think about. 

She finishes the stitch and wraps the wound. "There, all done," she says. "The anaesthetic should wear off soon. Now let's write you that prescription."

She stands up and moves to the desk, scribbling something on a pad of paper. When she hands it to McCree, he squints, trying to decipher it, but there’s no point. Angela has perfected the art of illegible doctor’s notes. 

“Don’t worry, it’s just an antibiotic. It shouldn’t interfere with any other medication you take, but it might cause stomach aches if you don’t take it with food.”

McCree nods and stuffs the note into his pocket, but he still looks wary. Angela smiles in spite of herself. “Thanks, doc,” he says. “I’ll let you know how it gets on.” 

“Please do. If there are any complications, make sure you see me right away.” 

“Got it.” McCree tips his hat to her and turns around to leave the room. He manages to open the door and get one foot out, but he doesn’t get any farther than that: hastily, Angela calls out “Wait!” 

McCree looks at her over his shoulder, expression puzzled. “What’s the problem, doc?” 

Angela hesitates. She looks down at her hands and wrings them together. She isn’t even sure why she stopped him leaving, really, but she decides in that moment that she can’t just let him go like this. Can’t let him go without saying something.

She looks up. “Thank you,” she whispers. 

McCree nods. The slightest hint of a smile quirks his lips upward, and he tips his hat again. “Anytime, doc.” 

He leaves the office and shuts the door behind him, leaving Angela alone with her thoughts, and her slightly lessened guilt, once more. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, have a chat, or find out how to support me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r) or follow my writing blog [@intim3ate](https://intim3ate.tumblr.com), where I post progress, WIPs, and take requests.
> 
> If you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1122210346939244544). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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